Chapter 8 - The Price of Blood
From the bedrooms behind the bar, four men stepped out. They were Kane’s personal shooters, recognizable by the silver ring emblems on their lapels. Reece Callahan was with them, his eyes fixed on the floor, unable to look Tristan in the face.
"Sorry, boss," Callahan muttered. "It was just business."
"Business requires a profit, Reece," Tristan said. "What did they promise you? My seat? You think the Kanes let a traitor keep his head once the war is over?"
Marcus stood up, drawing a nickel-plated revolver from his waistband. "Enough talking. End it."
Tristan didn't move toward his gun. He simply reached into his coat pocket and pressed the send button on his phone.
A second later, the massive television screen on the penthouse wall flickered to life. It wasn't a cable broadcast. It was a live feed from the basement of the Blackwood Heights building, where federal agents were currently loading crates of Kane’s contraband—crates that Tristan had leaked the coordinates of using Bennett’s files an hour earlier.
But that wasn't all. The screen shifted to show Julian’s personal bank accounts being drained in real-time, the funds transferred to an untraceable charitable trust registered under the name The Bennett Foundation.
"You think I came here to fight you?" Tristan asked, a cold, terrible smile touching his lips. "I came to watch you realize you're already broke."
Julian sprinted toward the coffee table to grab the drive, but before he could reach it, the glass windows of the penthouse shattered inward with a deafening roar.
Flashbangs detonated across the marble floor, filling the luxury suite with blinding white light and a concussive shockwave that threw Marcus backward over the bar.
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Tristan dropped to his knees, drawing his Glock in a single, fluid motion. He didn't look at the smoke; he looked at the shadows.
Two shots took down the first Kane shooter. A third caught Callahan in the shoulder as he tried to scramble for the exit. The penthouse erupted into a chaotic, deafening firefight, the sound of automatic weapons tearing the million-dollar art pieces from the walls.
